


Consolador

by GloriaMundi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, Community: au_bingo, M/M, Object Insertion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-28
Updated: 2011-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-16 00:17:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A man who doesn't like to think of you being on duty all night, mid-week, with nary an emergency unless you count some old dear ringing up in a panic because she's afraid the gin will dissolve her dentures. A man who, selflessly and with no small sacrifice of personal dignity --"<br/>Eames will go to considerable lengths to win Arthur back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consolador

"Mr Eames," said Arthur, after a brief glance up at the ceiling in which he promised retribution to any deity that might be enjoying the comedy special that was, apparently, his professional life. "We've missed you here in Accident and Emergency. It's been almost a week since your last ... problem."

Eames grinned lazily up at him from the bed. "What can I say, Arthur? I --"

"That's Doctor Cohen, if you please," snapped Arthur. He nodded to the nurse. "You can go, Nurse. I'll call if I need assistance."

"Doctor Cohen won't be needing you," Eames called after her as she tugged the curtains closed. "He's remarkably adept at --"

"No need to alarm the other patients, Mr Eames." Arthur pulled on a latex glove, snapping the wrist with exceptional vigour. The theatricals were wasted on Eames, of course. Eames probably downloaded _Casualty_ instead of porn.

"There _aren't_ any other patients," countered Eames. "Really, Arthur, what do you take me for?"

"A time-waster," said Arthur coldly.

"A man who doesn't like to think of you being on duty all night, mid-week, with nary an emergency unless you count some old dear ringing up in a panic because she's afraid the gin will dissolve her dentures. A man who, selflessly and with no small sacrifice of personal dignity --"

"A man," said Arthur, his expression as bland as years of medical school could make it, "who persists in inserting unsuitable objects into his rectum."

There was a faint gasp from beyond the curtain. Clearly the nurses were bored tonight, too.

Arthur smiled grimly, and stepped forward, reaching for the Optilube from the trolley by the bed.

"So, Mr Eames, what is it this evening?" he enquired, watching as Eames ... well, as Eames assumed the position.

"That's for me to know," said Eames, winking (then wincing at the first prod of Arthur's slick, chilly index finger), "and you to find out."

"I have another question for you," Arthur went on, probing carefully for whatever foreign object Eames might've seen fit to shove up his ass this evening. "Why do you keep on doing this? You do know how ridiculous this is going to look on your medical records, right?"

"I've got to --" said Eames, and exhaled a slow, loud breath as Arthur's fingers went deeper. "I have to get my thrills somehow, Arthur. You know how I like something big and broad and hard up my-- ow!"

"Sorry: couldn't help it," lied Arthur.

"Haven't you heard of the Hippocratic Oath?" demanded Eames, remarkably indignant for a guy lying prone on a bed in a cubicle off the main admissions ward, waiting for a trained medical professional to remove a sex toy (or today's functional equivalent of one) from his nether regions.

"We're not exactly private, here," Arthur reminded him. Leaving his fingers in place, he reached left-handed for a retractor.

"We're alone, aren't we? Or as alone as you ever let me get, since -- _fuck_ , Arthur, can't you be gentle with me? I know you're capable of --"

"Firstly," said Arthur, adjusting the retractor, "it's Doctor Cohen; secondly, if you persist in presenting with self-administered foreign bodies in your rectum then I'm afraid you'll have to learn to live with the occasional discomfort when they're removed; and thirdly," he added in a whisper, leaning down until his mouth was right next to Eames' ear and he could see Eames' pores, see the sheen of sweat -- okay, maybe he'd been a bit rough just now -- and smell that unique combination of smoke and sweat and the Puissance Deux Arthur had bought him for Christmas. "If you want to talk, we'll talk. But not here. Just say the word, Eames."

"Honestly?" said Eames a few minutes later, after Arthur had removed and discarded a formidably broad, but otherwise unexceptional, dildo. Eames was sitting up and wincing. "All I had to do was ask?"

"Uh-huh," said Arthur, not meeting Eames' eyes. He stripped off the gloves and binned them. "You probably know my schedule better than I do: just pick a time and a place, and let me know."

"It's that easy, is it?" said Eames. "And what if I said, oh, pop round to mine, Arthur; I'll cook you that risotto you like and we can talk about our not-a-relationship and have a massive row and fabulous make-up sex on the settee? What would you say to that, eh?"

Arthur was past caring whether the nurses were listening. They all knew he was gay, anyway: it was his last and best defence against their blandishments. "I'd say, seven o'clock tomorrow?"

"Seven o'clock it is," said Eames, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "See you tomorrow, darling."

-end-


End file.
